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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583339">How Not to Say I Love You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink'>andthekitchensink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Person of Interest (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M, Undercover as a Couple</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:34:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,400</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24583339</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Reese and Finch go undercover to help a Number at a couples therapy weekend retreat, not everything is as it seems. John has to navigate his own emotions while posing as someone whose situation hits too close to home.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harold Finch/John Reese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>75</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Exchange of Interest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>How Not to Say I Love You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/gifts">Corvidology</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>810 Baxter Street was quiet and dark, blanketed by a bout of late spring rain. The large windows of the loft, which were normally John’s eyes out onto the world outside, were closed for the night. While he didn’t need the heavy curtains to keep out the cold (though it was cold and wet enough to get into your bones even with the approach of summer), or cared about who might be watching him when he was alone -- only one pair of eyes mattered. So much so that he’d never done anything about the tiny cameras scattered about the loft. Harold would always be there, keeping an eye on him -- and the curtains were for him, as much for his sense of privacy as for his stiff neck, and his aching back, and his hip. No prying eyes, and one more layer to ward off the cold of the outside world.</p><p>How many months had it been, now? Telling himself that theirs was a transient affair, never meant to last, and yet they kept circling back? Every new Number, they were professional as ever, friendly, flirting the way they always had (John more overtly than Harold, as always), but for every new brush with death there was a sense of urgency: a relentless surge of electric desire that could only have one resolution. John breathed in deep, lips pressed to Harold’s naked shoulder. He smelled warm, of sweat and sex and ridiculously expensive cologne. It drew a smile to John’s lips, knowing he was the only one who ever had the luxury of dozing, naked, in bed, with the most private person he’d ever known. Their first kiss had been an awkward affair, fumbling with uncertainty, both of them skittish with years of ingrained wariness getting in the way. Trusting someone with your life is one thing; trusting someone with the biggest secret in the entire world is another...but adding sex to an already volatile mix? He knew that’s all it was. Just sex. Just a series of brief encounters with the explicit purpose of blowing off steam. Harold never lingered, and John never asked him to stay.</p><p>“Mhhn…” Harold mumbled, halfway between sleep and not, squirming in his arms. Spend too much time in the same position, and he was bound to get uncomfortable. That small sound was John’s cue. This was how it always ended. John brushed his long fingers over the salt n’ pepper hair dusting Harold’s front, as if touch alone was enough to make the moment last a bit longer.</p><p>“Easy, Harold. Don’t want to hear any tendons crackling.”</p><p>One long, measured inhale, then, “Your <em> aural </em> talents never cease to amaze me, Mister Reese,” Finch noted dryly, skating the edge of sarcasm. </p><p>The use of John’s alias was the only signal he needed. Harold and John were a closed chapter, until next time. “My onion-y layers are endless,” quipped Reese, scooting back to give his employer room to get out of bed.</p><p>The only problem was, they never knew when there’d be a next time, and for every late night visit, John grew more desperate. He could feel it. He wanted <em> more </em> . Before it was too late, before they’d used up all their combined lives or lucky stars, before they had to face the fact there’d never <em> be a next time </em>.</p><p>More. Just one tiny little word, but it was both the answer to John’s increasing desperation and the most terrifying question mark in existence. As much as he wanted, until he physically ached with it, John couldn’t for the life of him pinpoint exactly <em> what </em> he wanted more of. </p><p>Little did Reese know he had an entire weekend of answers ahead of him, because just a few hours later, Finch presented him with a new Number. They were going to a couples therapy retreat.</p><p> </p><p>FRIDAY.</p><p>The Harmony Holistic Center was an idyllic setting for any kind of retreat. Nestled in Van Cortlandt Park like one of its many hidden gems, it was a fairly recent venture of Vera Mayhew’s -- a British migrant in her early thirties, she had come to New York to get a degree in behavioral science and never looked back. She had no priors, no red flags anywhere far as the Machine could tell, which meant one of two things:</p><p>She really was as dead set on helping people as she seemed, or;</p><p>She was careful enough about her digital footprints not to leave behind anything suspicious.</p><p>As for the other couples attending the weekend on improving one’s relationship, they were a varied bunch. Some had form, most of them were clean as the proverbial whistle, and nothing overtly suspicious as to the Number. They were going in blind, which wasn’t exactly new. Their OP was as Standard as it ever was, the one major difference being that they were both undercover. Finch took the lead, as Harold Partridge, his filthy rich investor alias (that John had a secret crush on, as he couldn’t imagine anything sexier than Finch completely annihilating bad guys with a few well chosen words), while Reese did much the same: relying on whatever fragments of their lives that summed them up well enough for the job. For the duration of the case, he was John Rivers, a security expert currently between jobs. If the shoe fit, and whatnot. Rivers’ sugar daddy with trust issues could foot the bill. Something along those lines.</p><p>Before long they were settled into their own suite, one of only ten units -- the center was small, and its owner had no apparent plans of expansion despite its successful setup. The suite itself was deceptively modest, spartan, the way only money could buy. While Finch busied himself setting up shop (laptop and other assorted computer gadgets laid out on the cherry wood desk, ready to be connected and running in no time) John positioned himself by the French door windows leading onto their own, private balcony. They had a panoramic view of the center grounds from this room, and beyond. Sunlight danced over the natural body of water in the distance, a stark contrast to the crisp, clinical blue of the pool area below.</p><p>“Nice view, Harold. Very scenic.”</p><p>Finch barely glanced away from his screens, but John caught the hint of movement in his peripheral vision. Just a little straightening of his ramrod posture. </p><p>“I thought you would appreciate a room with a view,” said Finch, that particular lilt to his voice that signalled his sense of humor.</p><p>“Aw. You know me too well, honey,” John murmured through a barely there smirk, pleased with the response he got -- silence, a full three seconds of it. He could feel Finch’s eyes boring into his neck. Pet names and diminutives weren’t exactly their <em> thing </em>.</p><p>“Quite.”</p><p>Finch returned to his setup, John putting away their suitcases in the bedroom. It was early still, time enough for a bit of recon before the welcome lunch.</p><p>“I’ll scope out the grounds,” John informed his partner, who finally looked up from his screens. The thirty minute drive up there had left a distinct tension around his eyes, which explained his quiet, steely focus on the job. Harold always did dive headfirst into work to deal with flare ups. It wasn’t as though John couldn’t relate.</p><p>“Don’t go in the pool without me, <em> darling </em>. You’re not the only one who enjoys a nice view every once in a while.”</p><p>Safely positioned behind his screens, Finch watched as John left, and brought up the command prompt. There was...work to be done.</p><p>***</p><p>While Finch set up his work station, as it were, John did a sweep of the main building, noting all the usual points of interests: exits, surveillance, where to take cover in case of gunfire; staff, guests, their quirks and general behavior; areas off limits to guests. Anything and everything that might come in handy, he tallied up and tucked away into a special little box at the forefront of his mind. Wherever they might need an extra ear or two, he left a bug in an unassuming spot, but the CCTV was spread out well enough that he figured it would do. Finch agreed over their commlink, checking the CCTV feeds on his laptop.</p><p>“Everything looks satisfactory on my end, Mr Reese,” he said, with the distinct purring notes of professional contentment.</p><p>John glanced at one of the CCTV cameras, heading towards the restaurant where they would be meeting and greeting everyone there for the weekend. “You say the sweetest things, Finch. Let’s not be late for lunch?”</p><p>The lunch, as it turned out, was an informal affair that was just as much about exchanging pleasantries as for Ms Mayhew to lay down some ground rules - everyone was expected to participate in the group sessions, but only so far as ‘acceptably uncomfortable’. No one was expected to tell all, but a level of candor was expected for everyone’s benefit. This wasn’t just about the individual participant learning new ways forward, but an exchange of experiences between couples and individuals alike. In John’s humble opinion, it looked better on paper than what it sounded like in real life. For one, chilling moment, he couldn’t think of a single viable angle for his alias. A briefing on the Number plus a thirty minute drive was not enough prep time to figure out Rivers’ issues with his partner. He had to have issues, or they wouldn’t be here -- unless it was all in Partridge’s head, jealousy or whatnot, or a superiority complex for the oodles of money to his name.</p><p>John realized with some trepidation that he would either have to wing it, or base whatever issues Rivers had on his own experiences. He didn’t look forward to either scenario -- especially not since Harold would be right there, assessing his every look, every twitch, every last word out of his mouth.</p><p>***</p><p>Everyone gathered in what looked more like a conference room than a cozy safe space for sharing one’s innermost fears and desires. They all sat around a series of smaller round tables, pushed together to an abstract flower shape that accommodated every couple while maintaining a comfortable distance. Not too much, not too little, but just enough. The Monroes were first out the gate -- a harmless pair, for all appearances (and background checks), they’d been married since the day it was legalized, after forty years of commitment. The two women were a testament to true love being something you had to work hard for, but it was unmistakable in the way they looked at each other. Their eyes glowed with affection as old as time, and their smiles were bright and honest. Their main concerns were how to break out of the everyday routine, how to inject some energy into their relationship again, without necessarily feeling like every date night was a compromise, or the same old thing they always did.</p><p>Nothing uncommon, in other words, but perhaps not the most world-shattering reason to come to this retreat. They were the only other non-straight couple there -- also not world-shattering, to have four homosexuals in the same room -- but John couldn’t help but feel a jolt of anxiety. Not that it mattered, but the Monroes seemed so incredibly <em> wholesome </em> , and next to them he and Finch-- <em> Partridge </em> would surely seem like a dysfunctional pair of degenerates. It didn’t matter. It didn’t. But he <em> cared </em>. The last thing he wanted was for whatever he said to reflect badly on this pseudo-imaginary relationship they were supposedly having problems with. Before he knew it, he’d reverted to his more familiar schtick, the easy-going, borderline snarky <strike>bitch</strike> bastard he always fell back on when dealing with all kinds of shady characters. He listened, he kept his mouth shut, but the moment it was his and Partridge’s turn, he played the evasion game like a boss. John talked about his high risk job, working security, about how difficult it was to get his head in gear when off the clock. He said he was always on guard, which wasn’t technically a lie, but enough of one to be within the framework of the case. </p><p>“It’s easier to be alone,” he said with a casual shrug, meeting Mayhew’s calm gaze with all the understated confidence in the world. “I’ve spent most of my life alone, I like it that way, and sometimes… It feels like a chore, getting dressed up for a night at the opera.”</p><p>Harold sat quiet, ramrod straight and his chin barely tilted his way. Mayhew nodded, the corners of her lips downturned in an inverted smile.</p><p>“Would you say you’re more of a homebody, then, John?”</p><p>He shook his head, wondering why Harold was letting him do all the talking. If they were supposed to be a couple needing therapy, then he’d given him ample opportunity to chime in. “I’ve been around the world several times over. I just want to relax when I’m off duty.”</p><p>Turned out Harold was just biding his time. He sat up straighter even for him, seeming to gain a few inches in height. “<em> Drink </em>, you mean. That’s your idea of fun, John, let’s not be coy about it.”</p><p>John gave a dark smile: this, he could work with. “You have to be drunk to enjoy <em> The Pirates of Penzance </em>, Harold.”</p><p>Finch’s eyes turned into the perfect approximation of horrified saucers. He gasped. “Take that back!”</p><p>“--or <em> passed out </em>from sheer boredom.”</p><p>Harold blinked, looking very much like an owl. “<em> John! </em>”</p><p>Mayhew cleared her throat, her smile less therapeutically empathetic and more privately amused. She’d very likely heard much worse in her line of work. “Gentlemen. I see we all have a few things to work with, which is excellent. Good job, everyone! Now, let’s take a few minutes to fill out the self-evaluation forms and what you’d like to continue discussing in our one-on-one sessions. Myself and my colleague, Rowan, will talk with one each from every pairing. Make sure you all grab a slot on the timetable.”</p><p>So much for not reflecting badly on his partner...</p><p>***</p><p>Later that night they retired to their room, taking turns in the bathroom for their nightly ablutions. John needed all of five minutes for everything including a shower, while Harold took a while longer. John used the spare time to turn down the bed, prepare a cup of green tea, and collate all the data they had so far. It wasn’t much, but it was a start.</p><p>Soon enough Finch came out of the bathroom, already changed into a crisp gray pinstripe pajama set. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, but the moment he picked up on the scent of sencha his mouth tugged into a lopsided smile.</p><p>“Just what I needed,” he murmured, bringing the cup to the bedside table, and got into bed with John. “<em> Penzance </em>, was it?”</p><p>John arched his eyebrows in an artful display of innocence to match Harold’s slanted smirk of amusement. For a given value of ‘innocence’. “At least I didn’t call you a drunkard.”</p><p>“Ah. Yes.” Harold’s smile widened by telling increments, bringing out the crow’s feet around his eyes. “My apologies.”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it,” said John, clasping his hands behind his head, looking up at the ceiling. “Ericson’s a bit of a bastard,” he noted, referring to one half of one of the other couples. “The way he talks to his fiancée…”</p><p>“And <em> about her </em>. However, I’m not sure how that’s relevant to Ms Mayhew.”</p><p>“It isn’t,” he murmured, frowning at the general state of things. “But it might be if she calls his bullshit.”</p><p>More theories were exchanged, either discarded or put away for later, while Harold sipped his green tea with one lump of sugar until they were both satisfied they weren’t getting anywhere based on the available data. Tomorrow was a new day, ripe for the taking. For now, they would rest; Harold citing his sore back as reason for why they should lie curled up against each other. John rolled onto his side, meeting Harold’s sideways scooting halfway.</p><p>“There we go,” he whispered, wriggling his arm beneath Harold, hugging him from behind. Nice and close, flush to one another, Harold could lean into his chest, knowing he was safe.</p><p>“Are you sure your arm won’t go to sleep?”</p><p>“If it does, you’ll be the first to know, sweetheart. I got you.”</p><p>As they settled into a night of restless sleep, John’s nose brushing the soft skin behind Harold’s ear every now and then, neither one of them had any idea exactly what tomorrow would bring.</p><p> </p><p>SATURDAY.</p><p>Over the course of the next day, John couldn’t shake the growing suspicion that there was no one in the state of New York that wanted to hurt Ms Mayhew. No one seemed to have any ulterior motives, including Mayhew herself -- she had no grudges, no pet peeves, <em> nothing </em> against <em> anyone </em>. They had no leads to pursue, nothing at all substantial to go on, and to top it all off they had to keep up the charade of a happy but struggling couple. By lunchtime, they had nothing to show for but a bunch of ‘homework’ from the therapists, and Finch seemed only too pleased with himself. It was enough for John to suspect that the only reason they were there was because this was Finch’s twisted idea of a getaway. Make believe couple time, get to listen to John’s lies, sift through them to find a core of truth?</p><p>But when he brought up his concerns, asked Finch outright why they were there, his walls came up in point-five seconds. John’s so-called concerns were “ridiculous”, he was told in no uncertain terms, as well as “completely unfounded”. What could possibly have possessed him to think this was anything but a legitimate case, and “I thank you not to make such assumptions of me in future, <em> Mister Reese </em>.” And then came the final blow.</p><p>“Perhaps it’s better if our relationship reverts to the purely professional once this case is over,” Finch told him, in a tone of voice that was positively glacial -- in a frosty force of nature sort of way.</p><p>It was like a knife to the heart. Felt like it, too. John leaned in close enough he could feel Finch’s breath on him, and sneered through his response. “Our relationship was never purely professional, <em> Finch </em> . Not for one second. Don’t you <em> dare </em>pretend otherwise.”</p><p>Harold stared up at him, owl-eyed and perfectly lethal in his own right, but John didn’t let him get another word in edgewise.</p><p>“How many times have I told you what you mean to me? How many times have I talked about you, how you’ve changed my life, changed <em> me </em>? I don’t ask for much, but a bit of acknowledgement might be nice.”</p><p>He stormed out of there like a whirlwind of fury, and didn’t stay in their suite that night, but patrolled the grounds several times over. If all Finch wanted was for him to do his job and not ask questions, he’d do his damn job. Just before midnight, he passed by the restaurant, and saw someone seated by the bar. It was none other than their supposed ‘Number’, Dr Mayhew herself, nursing a tumbler of honey-gold spirits.</p><p>She looked up, perhaps catching his movements in the corner of her eye, and raised her glass in recognition. “Trouble sleeping?”</p><p>John shook his head, but nonetheless crossed the distance with a few long strides, and took a seat beside her. “No more than usual. I’m always wired, remember?”</p><p>“It’s in my notes,” she said, a small smile tugging her lips over a crooked smile. “Have a drink if you want, on the house. Anything on your mind tonight?”</p><p>“In particular?” There were too many things on his mind at any given time to pick out anything distinctive. Just, everything, all at once, and not enough white noise in the entire world to take the edge off. Slipping off the barstool, he took the doc up on her offer, and poured himself a stiff drink behind the counter.</p><p>Mayhew watched him, rolling the squared off tumbler between her hands, as if it could somehow lead the way forward in her mind. “How’s Harold?”</p><p>“Stubborn,” John said, way too fast not to be honest. Mayhew arched her eyebrows, but kept quiet, prompting him (ex-CIA operative, re-wrote the book on questionable means of interrogation, <em> him </em>) to elaborate.</p><p>“...we’re not the kind of people who constantly affirm each other’s existence-- But-- I tell him how I feel. Every now and then.”</p><p>“When you find the words?”</p><p>He nodded. “It’s-- complicated. I don’t even know if he wants to have a relationship or not. Or if we’re just…”</p><p>Another long, aching stretch of silence. John wasn’t used to being on the other side of somebody’s calm, assessing gaze. He didn’t like it one bit.</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“Convenient.” He bit the inside of his cheek, then gulped down half his drink in one go. The word tasted like dirt in his mouth. Worse than an insult. </p><p>“Saying ‘I love you’ doesn’t work for everyone,” Mayhew pointed out. “Everyone has their own ways of saying they care about you and want you in their life.”</p><p>John shrugged; she went on, “...you mentioned he bought you an apartment for your birthday. A place of your own? That’s a big deal.”</p><p>“I don’t want him to buy me things, I want <em> him </em> . I don’t care about his <em> money </em>. He makes me a better person just being around him, makes me look forward to tomorrow. That’s all I care about.”</p><p>Mayhew nodded slowly, visibly coming to a conclusion. “Then maybe it is that simple. You’re not hearing each other. If he’s the sort of person to show affection through gifts, and you don’t care about material things… You tell him how you feel, but the words don’t fully register to him. Then, that’s what you need to work on.”</p><p>“What, <em> using our words </em>?” John drawled, just on the verge of ill-disguised sarcasm. But Mayhew simply grinned, and raised her glass in a toast before finishing her drink.</p><p>“Got it in one, kid. Here’s to you.”</p><p> </p><p>SUNDAY.</p><p>By lunchtime on their last day, everything came to a very sudden point. Everyone was gathered in the garden out back for a light lunch and an informal chat, much like the welcoming lunch, when Ericson positively exploded in a stunning display of a hair trigger fuse, not because their Number brought up his demeaning behavior towards his fiancé, but because one of the Monroes did. The smaller, quieter one, who looked like she’d never hurt a fly in her life, was suddenly in a shouting match with a former quarterback. With a gun.</p><p>John acted on instinct, his fight or flight response firmly in the fight camp, he flew at Ericson in a running body slam that sent them both tumbling into the pool. He never knew what hit him. Unfortunately, neither did John. One second they were flying through the air, crashing into the water, and the next his head felt like a melon dropped on the ground. Everything went black.</p><p>***</p><p>The crowd started screaming, shouting, but John couldn’t hear them very well. Everything seemed to exist in a vacuum where things happened too slowly and too fast at the same time. The water was cold, but very distant, just like the flurry of movement around him. Hands grabbing at him, arms around him, the roar of the ocean between his ears and a pressure inside that never seemed to stop getting worse, even with the insistent push of hands on his chest keeping it at bay. Lips pressed to his, the rush of air, again and again, until the pressure got to be too much, pushed right out of him. Who knew breathing could be like swallowing the sun -- everything burned like fire without the water in his lungs, and slowly the world faded back in.</p><p>Harold was kneeling beside him, sopping wet, his glasses lost in the commotion. Without them, his face was completely unguarded, and what John saw in those big, blue eyes was nothing short of a revelation: fear. Relief. He knew the truth, right there in that moment. He was right. There never was a Number. This was all Harold’s doing.</p><p>“<em> John! </em> Oh, thank the <em> stars </em>--” Harold blurted out, his hands moving from his chest to his face, stroking his forehead, his cheeks. Completely careless of who was watching.</p><p>John couldn’t help himself. Even in a moment as fraught with human emotion as this, watching his Very Private Partner practically spill his guts, he had to be a bit of a troll.</p><p>“Next time,” he rasped out, throat on fire. “How about you write down your feelings on a piece of paper and sneak it into my pocket?”</p><p>It did the trick, startling his lover into a series of happy chuckles. “Only if you promise to burn after reading…”</p><p>“Or, just tell me? It’s just me, Harold…” He lifted his hand to cup Harold’s face, heart warm with emotion. “It’s just us. No one else matters.”</p><p>Harold’s mouth trembled like a cardiogram, and he nodded, leaning down to press his lips to John’s. It was their first public display of affection, not just for the weekend, but for all the time they’d been together. Not counting the time Snow shot him, and he’d clung to Harold like he was life itself, or a knight in shining armor, the one to save him again and again from the brink of...everything.</p><p>***</p><p>In the end, Harold’s ruse to give them a chance to work on their communication skills meant they were at the right place at the right time to stop a crime that for once wasn’t premeditated. It made the awkward confessions seem less awkward, whether they were strictly true or not. Ericson was dealt with, and John and Harold returned home, satisfied with a job well done.</p><p>Harold stayed the night, for the first time since <em> their </em> first time, and in the morning he informed John they were going to have to do something about his mattress. His current one simply wouldn’t do. It was the sweetest way anyone had ever told him how they really felt, and an investment John couldn’t have been happier with.</p><p> </p><p>The End</p>
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